


Craving

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 04:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Yeah, yeah, I know, babe, but like, time isn’t real, and all that. Also, you’re dreaming, so I’m not real, which is like, radical. Literally and figuratively.”Suppressing her feelings is difficult when Mabel's dreams keep reminding her of them.





	Craving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseWithAllHerThorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseWithAllHerThorns/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy it. <3

“Hi, Bill,” Mabel says, as soon as she realizes she is dreaming. She got the hang of lucid dreaming ages ago, but she never can quite take control when its about Weirdmageddon -- Dipper and Ford are sure, by now, that Bill is eradicated from existence, but Mabel’s not quite sure if you can really eradicate a being that deals in dreams if you keep dreaming about him. So maybe it’s Mabel’s subconscious, or maybe it’s Bill’s ghost, who makes trees sing  _hello, hello, hello!_ back at her. 

She has enough time to get a good look at the world around her -- her world -- the technicolor extravaganza, colors crashing into one another, smiles everywhere she looks, a world that is ever-changing and creative by its very nature. Her memories come back.

Her place in the world changes. She is in her castle, in the hallway at the entrance, where framed portraits of all of her favorite things are stacked from floor to ceiling in ornate rainbow frames. Her subconscious has kept up with her: There, near the top, is Damien, who she dated for six months when she was sixteen; there, over the doorway to her throneroom, is Katnik, from her favorite novel-turned-movie-turned-TV-series; there, in a deceptively small frame near the floor, is the fish she caught on her boating trip last summer and decided to keep. 

Mabel crouches down to examine the picture -- it’s a good one, Sir Flipperton looking alarmed and handsome and perfectly lovable -- and that’s when  _he_ comes in.

“Yo, yo, yo, Mabs! My main girl!” 

Mabel’s heart goes wild, but she doesn’t show it -- just smiles and pivots to face him. Dippy Fresh hasn’t changed much, over the years, in the same way Dipper hasn’t changed much -- he’s taller, now, sporting flannel and huge headphones around his neck. He’s still got his skateboard and sunglasses, though his hair is now dyed, streaks of colors running through the brown. His voice is lower. Mabel doesn’t have to imagine what it might feel like to cup his cheek -- scratchy with stubble, a feat her real brother still struggles with. 

“Dippy Fresh,” she says, like he’s an old friend and not part of the package that’s tormented her for almost ten years. “Wow, it’s been ages!”

Dippy Fresh puffs a little air up towards his bangs and flips his head, all cool and casual and, in spite of it all, handsome. “Yeah, yeah, I know, babe, but like, time isn’t real, and all that. Also, you’re dreaming, so I’m not real, which is like, radical. Literally  _and_ figuratively.” He throws up some devil horns and sticks out his long, pink tongue. 

Then, as if the act is enough to take what control she has over the dream away, the scene changes -- she’s in her bedroom in the castle, with the high canopied bed and dolls on every surface and a balcony leading out to the best view of the world. She’s on the bed, and Dippy Fresh is sitting in a chair, his feet propped up on the bed, his left knee almost touching hers. 

“I missed you, babe,” he says. 

Mabel wants to get up and away from him, away from her thrumming heart and the heat that’s begun to build in her. She knows what he wants, or maybe what  _she_ wants, has wanted since she was twelve and Dippy Fresh surprised her by stopping her in the hallway with a bouquet of flowers. She can still remember vividly the way he kissed the back of her hand, once. She remembers the electric shock that went through her when he kissed her on the cheek, close to her ear, a discovery she’s been pushing down ever since.

“But,” he says, before she can respond, “my aim’s gettin’ better.” He lifts his sunglasses so he can wink at her. 

Mabel sticks her foot under his chair and tips him onto the floor.

That’s all the dream gives her, because then she is on the balcony with him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, and for a moment, it’s almost like he’s really Dipper, because she feels warm and safe and  _home,_ though the world looks anything but. She can hear Stan singing in the garden, somewhere, and an orange cloud puffs up, an experiment of Ford’s gone wrong. And Dippy touches her wrist, and lets his fingers drag up the back of her hand, and Mabel, well, Mabel is dreaming. Not even Dipper can see into her dreams. 

So she turns her hand up for him. Just this once, she tells herself, just like she’s told herself every time since that first time, just like she’ll keep telling herself until she meets someone better than Dipper. It’ll happen. She has to believe it will.

Dippy Fresh’s hand is cool and dry, and he squeezes, and leans a little closer, and -- 

*

Mabel wakes in phases, the dream rumbling through her, a little more fuzzy and indistinct each time. She finally checks her phone -- a little after two. Dipper will still be awake. 

She gathers her blankets and sneaks out of her room, studiously not thinking about her body, the way it’s thrumming, the desire not just to be touched but to be -- to be -- she can’t even formulate it in the privacy of her mind, the sweat-slick, confused desires that won’t stop following her. 

She doesn’t knock, so Dipper knows it’s her. He’s in bed, wreathed in his laptop and papers and notebooks and a camera; two more are perched precariously on his nightstand. “Hey,” he says. “Can’t sleep?”

Mabel doesn’t answer, just dumps herself onto the bed. Papers crinkle restlessly under her, but Dipper doesn’t snap at her, just shifts a little to make room and saves a couple of papers. The rest of it must just be homework. Mabel scoots a little closer, not bothering to sit up.

Dipper touches her forehead, then brushes the bangs out of her eyes. “Nightmares?”

Mabel hums  _no._ Then, because she doesn’t want him to pay attention to his laptop, she adjusts it to a,  _well._ She’s rewarded by Dipper running his hand along her hairline, freeing a few locks from her nightshirt and blankets. He bundles the lot of it in his fist, loosely, then drapes it over her shoulder; his hand stays there, warm, familiar, better than anything Dippy Fresh could offer.

“Just weird,” she says. 

Dipper waits, but she doesn’t want to make up a lie and doesn’t want to set him off by half-lying. When she doesn’t say anything else, he pats her shoulder and goes back to typing -- the loss of contact makes something twist in her chest.  _Say it,_ she thinks.  _Say it,_ and, at the same time,  _don’t, don’t, don’t._

It could be so easy. Her hand is right next to his thigh, separated only by her blanket. Or she could sit up and lean over, nuzzle into his cheek, the uneven stubble that he’ll shave in the morning -- she could -- she  _could_ \-- 

But she won’t. 


End file.
